13
The evening went by much quicker than Iris had believed possible.
Which was a surprising thing, really. She had gone into it with more than a fair amount of dread, after all.
She could not be easy around Mr. Beckett considering how tumultuous their acquaintance was.
That certainty had grown more robust as the meal had begun, with his too-watchful eyes on her more times than she could count and his interrogation that had left her frazzled.
Yet his attitude had shifted as the evening had worn on.
That impression had been because of Verity and her mother, she told herself as she shrugged into her outerwear.
Their natural cheerfulness could make even the most frigid persona thaw.
Even so, she could not deny that his hard gaze had softened, the tight lines of his face replaced by a thoughtfulness that had her heart pounding with?.
.? .? what? She had no clue what this emotion was.
She only knew she had never felt it before she’d met Mr. Beckett, and it was only growing stronger each time she saw him.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said now to Mrs. Archer.
“It is I who should be thanking you, Mrs. Rumford,” the woman replied with a wide smile.
“It has been some time since we’ve had company.
Your presence made our night quite jolly.
But please”—she held out a paper-wrapped parcel—“do bring some of the tart we had for dessert to your friends. The manor house has sent too much not to share.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Iris said, accepting the package—only to be distracted by the swollen, twisted joints of the woman’s hands.
They seemed to give her incredible pain, if the wince that pulled ever so faintly at the corners of her mouth was any indication.
Before she could ask about it, however, Verity bounced forward, linking her arm with Iris’s.
“We are still to meet tomorrow as planned?” She shot her brother a defiant look before returning her attention to Iris. “And you needn’t worry about asking Oliver for permission. My mother has given it, so we can freely ignore my brother’s preferences in this regard.”
Which did not lessen Iris’s trepidation regarding the man’s opinion of her meeting with his sister, but she was not so stupid she would look at him to confirm it. “Of course,” she said, with far more bravado than she felt. “I look forward to it. But it grows dark, and I really must get back.”
“Oh, but how right you are,” Mrs. Archer said, sudden worry coating her voice.
She craned her neck, looking out the open door.
“By the time you return home it will be much too dark for you to be alone. Oliver,” she declared, “as you need to head off to work anyway, why don’t you walk Mrs. Rumford home? ”
A suggestion which was followed by the loudest silence Iris had ever heard.
She stared at the woman before, quite against her will, she turned to look at Mr. Beckett.
At the same moment he turned to look at her, disbelief making his eyes wide and his jaw slack.
The moment their gazes clashed his face cleared of emotion, his jaw closing with an audible snap.
“I’m fine to head back on my own,” Iris said, the very thought of being alone with Mr. Beckett in the dark sending a shiver of a disturbing excitement coursing through her body. “It’s not far.”
“No matter that it is not far,” Mrs. Archer declared, “you are a woman alone.”
“There’s nothing dangerous out there,” Iris replied. No, the most dangerous thing to her was Mr. Beckett, if only for how he affected her.
But Mrs. Archer was apparently not one to give up so easily. “I insist,” she said, voice firmer than Iris had heard it thus far. Before Iris could think to respond, the woman turned to her son.
“Oliver, escort Mrs. Rumford home, please.”
With that she smiled her farewell and turned, heading up the stairs, taking her daughter with her. Leaving Iris quite alone—as she had feared to be—with Mr. Beckett.
“You needn’t accompany me,” she managed through a suddenly dry mouth. “I assure you, I am more than capable of returning home on my own.”
Before she could bob a quick curtsy and bolt from the house, however, Mr. Beckett stepped in front of her.
And then he did the thing she least expected: He gently took her hands in his.
She gasped, gaze flying up to meet his. But he was not looking at her face at all.
Rather, he was looking down at their clasped fingers.
“Please don’t hurt yourself,” he said quietly. Which prompted her to follow his gaze and see the patch of angry red on her wrist. Ah, so she had been doing that again, had she?
Flustered, she pulled her hands from his grasp. But she regretted it almost immediately, a strange sense of loss taking over her as their fingers separated.
He seemed to be affected as well. His hands stayed suspended in the air for a moment before dropping back to his side.
“Unfortunately, I really have no choice but to accompany you,” he said, his voice sounding strangely strangled.
He cleared his throat. “If I do not, my mother will not let me hear the end of it. Shall we?” He motioned toward the open door with the same determined expression as his mother.
Though wasn’t his grimmer than hers had been?
But she could not stand here arguing with him all night long. With one last look at his face, which appeared as if it had been carved from stone, Iris dipped her head and stepped out into the quickly darkening night, electrifyingly aware as Mr. Beckett followed.
The walk to Rose House was not a long one—he should know, seeing as he had already been there once today—yet it was taking an inordinately long time to get there.
Which could only be due to the woman at his side.
Without meaning to, he snuck a sideways glance at her.
Not the first time he had done so on this damnable walk, and no doubt not the last. And as before, the moment he did, Mrs. Rumford looked his way as well.
Just as she had during that damnably long, torturous dinner.
It was as if they were connected by some invisible ribbon, each push and pull in concert with each other.
Which should not thrill him at all. The fact that it did caused a low rumble of frustration to rise in his chest.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
His cheeks flushed hot. Thank goodness the darkening sky would prevent her from seeing any hint of a blush on his face.
But he had to say something. He cast about, finally settling on “You should not be going about after dark by yourself, though it is the countryside. There are predators here just as there are in London.”
She thought that over for a minute. “I do believe,” she finally said, “that wolves were hunted out of England several centuries ago.”
“Wolves are not the kind of predators I’m referring to,” he replied darkly.
“Oh. You are referring to predators of the bipedal variety.” There was a thick silence, the only sound their footsteps on the dirt road. And then, “Regardless, I’m certain I would have been fine. I do know some self-defense techniques, after all.”
That he did know. His face flushed hotter as he recalled how easily she had felled him at that first meeting. But no matter his lingering embarrassment, he could not help asking, “Where did you learn such skills?”
Mrs. Rumford kept her eyes on the road, sidestepping a rock as she replied, “Lady Vastkern insisted we all learn—” Her voice broke off, as if considering whether she should not have said as much, before she shrugged.
“As you are fully aware of our acquaintance, and that we all reside together, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you that.
And though it is unusual for a woman to be schooled in such things, it should not be.
There are predators everywhere, as you have stated. ”
He blinked. Though why her peculiar bluntness still surprised him, he didn’t know. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It should be a common skill. Or, rather, it should not have to be, but as women are so often preyed on, it should not be odd that women wish to protect themselves in any way they can.”
The look of affectionate approval she gave him, bright eyes glittering up at him in the deepening gloom, set his heart to flopping about in his chest like a fish out of water.
“How right you are, Mr. Beckett. I’m glad you share our views.”
Such acclamation should not have warmed him as much as it did. Yet here he was, fighting against the idiotic urge to puff his chest out and smile like a besotted fool. Clearing his throat, forcing a frown, he looked back to the road in front of them.
She continued talking, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “I am a great proponent of women educating themselves in such matters. Are your sister and mother schooled in such things as well?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” His frown deepened. Though now wasn’t the plan taking shape in his mind to see that they were?
As if she had read his mind, she turned toward him, laying a hand on his arm. “I would be happy to teach them something of what I know while I’m in the neighborhood.”
He stumbled, his focus suddenly and completely on that delicate hand on his arm.
How was it one simple touch, even with several layers of clothing in between, could make his entire body vibrate with sensation?
He stared at the gentle curve of her fingers on his bicep.
And how could such an unexceptional body part look so utterly and completely lovely?
She sensed the shift in his attention, her gaze dropping to her hand as well. “Oh!” she cried, pulling her hand back, cradling it to her chest as if to prevent it from reattaching itself to his arm. “My apologies.” Her cheeks darkened, and he wished he could see their exact shade of pink.
Which was not conducive to keeping a clear head. Good God, what the devil was wrong with him?